before i even write the title,
i set it to draft
selected as unworthy before it's born

i tell myself i might not want to write about writing
because of something someone said sometime
about mistakes

then if i remember right
i edit my memory:
after editing this poem
i am seeing clearly:
a censored Mnemosyne
raging from her shaded, titanic head

music may be involved.
or film,
or living well
or finding myself unable to speak out against bigotry
or those who'd impose their choice on another's body

the chills.
inseparable sensate emotions.
often they spread over the left side of my back, neck and head
.usually they feel good.
i think they may always feel good
like tears
and the urge to sing alone
or the sharp yearning:
i must tell this someone something soon

like
'the ocean overspills imaginal seas
and yet is less than what i want it to mean'

i had a nightmare last night.

i was running, away from the darkness
                           away from the demons

but they were catching up to me.  

i saw light, at the end of the path.  

i ran toward it but it kept getting
                           farther          
                                               and
                                                               farther
                                                                                         away.

but then i heard your voice.  

you told me that you were coming for me, to rescue me.

i looked around frantically, afraid that the demons had caught up

but they were
                           gone.

i desperately looked around for you,
                                                                   to hear your voice.

but only silence greeted me.

i waited and waited, but you wouldn't come.

the demons were coming closer to me.  

i opened up my mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

only silence.


because no one can here you scream.  

                                                                       in hell.